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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26620861">A Strange One</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liliriu/pseuds/Liliriu'>Liliriu</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dream Cycle - H. P. Lovecraft, LOVECRAFT H. P. - Works</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Androgyny, Angst, Cuddling &amp; Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gay Sex, M/M, Mental Instability, Nightmares, Romance, Unhealthy Relationships, harley warren apology, poe's "the raven"</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:47:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,751</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26620861</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liliriu/pseuds/Liliriu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Harley reflects on his relationship with Randolph.</p><p>Warnings: sex, mental instability, unhealthy relationship, mention of cannibalism (not part of the actual plot), mention of domestic violence.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Randolph Carter/Harley Warren</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Strange One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>People are strange when you're a stranger<br/>
Faces look ugly when you're alone<br/>
Women seem wicked when you're unwanted<br/>
Streets are uneven when you're down</p>
  <p>-People are Strange, The Doors</p>
</blockquote><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Now I ride with the mocking and friendly ghouls on the night-wind, and play by day amongst the catacombs of Nephren-Ka in the sealed and unknown valley of Hadoth by the Nile. I know that light is not for me, save that of the moon over the rock tombs of Neb, nor any gaiety save the unnamed feasts of Nitokris beneath the Great Pyramid; yet in my new wildness and freedom I almost welcome the bitterness of alienage.</p>
  <p>For although nepenthe has calmed me, I know always that I am an outsider; a stranger in this century and among those who are still men.</p>
  <p>-The Outsider, H.P. Lovecraft</p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Harley! Harley, wake up!”</p><p>I wake up, startled, and turn on the light switch next to the bed. It takes a long second for the ceiling lamp to illuminate the room with a stream of yellow light, exposing the pale face of my baby, right now covered by sweat, his messy red hair stuck to his forehead.</p><p>“Harley, I had a nightmare,” his voice is impatient.</p><p>All my former lovers, in such cases, would want me to hug them, kiss them, and whisper sweet words to their ears, but I know that Randolph has no time for those things right now, as there is something else that he urgently needs me to do: to write down every detail of his nightmare, so that he can later use it as raw material for his stories. I take from the nightstand the notebook and pen that I keep for this purpose, and start writing as he dictates me.</p><p>Randolph suffers from nightmares in a weekly basis, at least. Probably this situation is related to his time in the war, as often (but not always), the visions include war imagery. But I think that reducing all his problems to shell shock would constitute a far too simplistic explanation; since the topics of his dreams, war related or not, are almost never of the kind that most people would consider to be natural: strange and uncanny elements are perpetually present, whether in the landscapes or in the anatomy of the characters, and many times there is a clear absence of anything which could be recognized as earthly. The nightmare in question is somewhat of an exception to those last conditions; yet somehow, still manages to be a particularly horrific one: it is set in a complex of dungeons, inhabited by young children who are not allowed to feed on anything but each other’s flesh.</p><p>The task of writing it down is a consuming one, since Randolph’s memory is reach in nuances, and he often goes back to add even more details. After half an hour or forty minutes we are finally done, and I am, at last, able to satisfy my crave for caresses and sweet words. I turn off the light and pull Randolph’s little, warm body closer to my own. I hug him tight, gently stroking his tender skin with one hand, telling him how much I love him. He then allows himself to relax, his breathing turning quiet and calm as he drifts into sleep. I give him a little kiss on the head and fall asleep myself.</p><p>Lately I do not find myself interested in doing much but embracing Randolph, yet it was different at the beginning of our friendship. When I first met him, and until some point in time which I would not be able to localize now, I thought about him, put quite bluntly, as walking sex; since he was, and still is, a particularly sensual human exemplar, even if in a rather unconventionally feminine way. He is short in stature, fair skinned, and possesses a big, wonderfully round ass, perfect for thrusting your cock in as you hold him firmly against the bed (or the floor, or any other horizontal surface your imagination allows, for all that matters). His waist is fairly narrow, yet padded with a layer of soft, juicy, squeezable fat, which in a minor degree covers also his chest, arms and silky hands. His own cock is small enough that I could easily maintain it entirely inside my mouth for hours, as I delighted in the sound of his loud, ecstatic moans. His skin has the advantage of being acutely thin, and therefore exceptionally prone to redden and bruise with the slightest pinch or scratch. Finally, his facial features are both wise and angelical, with slim, red, shapely lips; a small, straight nose; and huge, bright, ice blue eyes, which look ever brighter as they are permanently surrounded by dark purple shadows.</p><p>And yet, I am no longer as obsessed with fucking him as I used to be, as well as with any other activity but holding him and murmuring endearments to him; the problem being that he is usually not inclined to allow this kind of behavior in me, as if my love for him was some kind of personal offense. He does not smile, or laugh, or exhibit any other normal reaction whenever I compliment him, but frowns or chuckles or rolls his pretty, pretty eyes, as if he understood praise in a completely different way than other human beings do. Most of the time, he just nods indifferently whenever I claim that I love him, and almost never says that he loves me back, unless he is heavily intoxicated, which is extremely rare as he seldom drinks. He is, in conclusion, a very cold and cynical individual, to the whole world in general and to my person in particular.</p><p>He enjoys torturing me in subtle ways, playing games which I cannot win, like insulting me with honey-soaked words, so to self-victimize if I admit to be offended; or asking me provocative questions, with the intention of eventually leading me to self-contradictions. Usually, I can see through this technique in time to avoid falling for his bite, but this does not serve of much help, since my refusal to cooperate with his questionings only gives him an excuse to, again, play the victim and ignore me for a few hours at least.</p><p>I discovered in the hard way that his effeminate, non-threatening looks are misleading, as in reality he is quite strong. He has hit me, once, after some minor disagreement which I cannot recall, with those deceitfully soft, creamy hands; and while he thankfully did not cause any serious damage, I certainly would not like the experience to be repeated. He did not even apologize afterwards, but coldly claimed that “I had it coming,” and refused to discuss the matter any longer. And it hurts, so much more that the long forgotten physical pain.</p><p>Yet, most of the time he does function perfectly well as my disciple and assistant. He is substantially sharp, gifted with an uncannily good memory, and most importantly: shares my esoteric interests. For many years, my studies where conduced alone, out of pure, frenetic fascination. I certainly did not imagine, back then, that I would ever have such an exquisite creature studying by my side, learning from me, clarifying my ideas, and even collaborating with my experiments; and what a wonderful feeling would that be.</p><p>Apart from the time dedicated to our studies, we do share other pleasant moments in each other’s company; those occasions in which Randolph seems to blessedly tire of his whole cynical approach, and actually seeks my physical proximity for purposes other than sex. In those occurrences, he will climb on my lap and bury his face in my chest, or kiss my neck with those little shapely lips, or even hold me as we share sweet hot chocolate, perhaps allow me to rest my head on his plump belly, running smooth fingers through my hair as he reads to me stories, his own or by some of his favorite authors, such as Poe and Clark Ashton Smith.</p><p>He recited me Poe’s “The Raven” once, not needing the written text, as he had learned it by heart. The poem sounded particularly bewitching to me, perhaps for the reason that I was hearing it for the first time, and perhaps since my imagination was influenced by the storm which was raging outside. My baby’s voice sounded so sweet and affected at the time; he seemed to have completely drowned inside the narrative as well, and I could practically see the insomniac student before my eyes, nervously walking back and forward in his room full of ancient books, as he mourned his recently deceased, beloved Lenore. Of course, I imagined him as younger version of my Randolph, and I felt absurdly jealous of this Lenore, who was apparently a “bright and radiant maiden”; who was I, in this story, if so? The raven, I remember to have bitterly thought; this dark, unsettling creature; seen as a friend, that was true, yet not really wanted, but merely tolerated out of profound loneliness.</p><p>He is a strange one, my Randolph, my baby; he is in pain. I can see the pain in his bitter manner of joking, in his apathetic reactions to the news, to the whole world, in fact. I can see the pain in his cruelty towards me and his refusal to take a compliment, as if he was unavailable to believe anything good about himself, and was profoundly convinced that anyone who loved him would be necessarily wicked and deserving of suffering. I can see it in his fascination with horrific fancies and realities, as if every external horror was seen as merciful by him, so long as it momentarily caused the internal ones to blur.</p><p>And maybe we could be happy, as lovers, if we were normal people, with normal business, less enchanted by witchcraft and ancient deities and extraterrestrial dreads. If only that could be true. But it is true, in an empty way; since we would, quite simply, be distinct people than those that we actually are, and those distinct people do exist, in enormous quantities even, happy and healthy and in love with each other. Those reflections are pointless. I see the demented sheen in his icy blue eyes, and love him, admittedly, not despite but because of it; he sees the underworld suggesting darkness in my black ones, and loves me because of it. Those beings are us, blissfully together.</p><p>
  
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